I HAVE NO MEMORIES
of my father.
Shawn always tried to get me to
remember things like Pop dressing up as Michael Jackson for Halloween and, after trick-or-treating,
riding us up and down on this elevator,
doing his best moonwalk but
not enough space to go nowhere, slamming into walls.
Shawn swore I laughed
so hard I farted,
stunk up the whole elevator, even peed myself.
I was only three.
And I don’t remember that.
I’ve always wanted to,
but I don’t.
I so don’t.